


Autumn Years

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Banter, Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, John Being a Cock Tease, Kilts, M/M, Petulant Sherlock, Roughhousing, but in a fun way, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock receive an invitation to one of Mycroft's Christmas soirées. They argue about the best way to both do their duty and drive Mycroft spare, and end up driving each other a little mad in the bargain.</p><p>This is part one of a prompt fill for platinum-clitoris. I thought I was finished with "Off-Kilter" but I guess not.  Also, I owe Persiflager for the word "tart"- she used it in her excellent fic "Jam Tomorrow" and I was just charmed by the idea of Sherlock and/or John using it. </p><p>Happy kilt-fetishing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn Years

“It’s too early for Christmas parties,” Sherlock grumbles, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Come on now. Everyone likes Christmas parties.” 

“It’s a ridiculous waste of time. Especially on the twenty-fifth of November.”

“Sherlock, belt up. We’re going, and that’s final. If you don’t, Mycroft is going to call your mother, and,” John lifts up the pillow and stares Sherlock down, “I am in absolutely no way ready to meet any other member of the Holmes family.”

Sherlock is opening that mouth of his to protest when John adds, “Besides, I know just how you can drive him absolutely bonkers.”

“Do tell” Sherlock’s mouth crinkles up and he turns over, propping himself on his elbows and focusing his full attention towards John. 

“Quit that.”

“Quit what?”

“Quit trying to deduce what I’m going to say before I say it.”

“But it’s endlessly entertaining. I’m only right about three-quarters of the time with you, and I should be right much more than that.”

“Just for that, I shouldn’t say another thing.”

“Oh, but you should.” Sherlock drapes his arm over John’s chest and puts on his most pleading look, clear eyes wide, and licks his lips.

John is not fooled.

“You know, that only works with people who don’t know what an arse you are.”

“Very interesting.” Sherlock has dropped the look. “I think you’re enjoying this. You like this idea, whatever it is, and that means that I’m not going to like it at all.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. You have actually already agreed to this, in the abstract.”

“I said ‘public sex’, John, not ‘sex in front of Mycroft’.”

“No, no, not that” John is perhaps a little hasty in his denial. 

“What, then? Do put me out of my misery.”

John shoves Sherlock off him and gets out of bed. He pads towards the closet, and as he reaches into it, Sherlock starts shaking his head. 

“No. Oh, no. Not that.”

“Come on now. You make me wear it often enough.” John has found the kilt. 

“I make you wear it? You practically leap into it at every opportunity.”

“Liar.”

“Tart.”

“Takes one to know one. And besides, there’s incentive.”

“Five minutes with one of your army colleagues and I would know what happened on that fateful night in Edinburgh. Can’t we just go down to the pub with them one night instead of having to parade at one of Mycroft’s little” Sherlock’s mouth purses into a horrible shape, “soirées?” 

“No. They won’t tell you, anyway, as I’m sure you’ve found out.”

Sherlock mutters something about outdated notions of loyalty and flops on to his back again.

“Don’t be such a drama queen. At least try it on.” John gestures towards him with the offending garment.

“Will you tell me if I put it on now?”

“No.”

“So I have to wear it for an entire evening?” 

“You do. But remember, Mycroft will be horrified. Isn’t that worth something?”

“The idea of my very proper brother’s reaction to me showing up to a party in something other than correct evening costume is certainly pleasant.”

“And he’ll have to pretend everything’s fine, as well, won’t he, because the alternative-admitting that you have made a faux pas-is just too horrible to contemplate.”

“How long do we have to stay? I can only take that disapproving expression for so long.”

“One hour. Can you wear a kilt in a room full of diplomats for one hour?”

“Forty-five minutes.” 

“One hour, and I’ll do filthy things to you in the cab on the way home.”

“Forty-five minutes. You’d do them anyway.”

“You don’t know that. I might be completely unaroused by you in a kilt.”

“I hardly think so. Our relationship is recent enough for you to want to touch me frequently. Furthermore, your refractory period is quite brief for someone your age.”

“For… someone… my… age…?” John repeats this slowly, just to make sure he’s heard Sherlock correctly, “Are you sure that’s what you want to say?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to give a serious answer, but correctly (if belatedly) sees that John is offended, and tries another tack: flirtation. Of a sort. 

“Want me to time you, old man?”

“That’s it, then.” John, kilt in hand, leaps on to the bed, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders. There’s a brief struggle, but when the dust settles, John has pinned Sherlock to the bed, face down, and is sitting astride him. 

“Old. You poor bastard.”

“I let you do that.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled.

“Mhm.”

“Now what?”

“Lift up your hips.”

“Oooh, frisky. Although I had planned on checking my mould cultures this morning, John.”  
“You can do it with the kilt on.”

“There is nothing on earth that can make me keep that on if I don’t want it on.”

“Oh, I know.” John pushes the kilt down around Sherlock’s waist, sliding his hand tantalizingly along below Sherlock’s navel before pulling it back up and fastening it. Sherlock does his best to hold still, but John can feel him shiver under his hands. He hops off the bed.

“Stand up. Let’s see you.”

“I’m not decent.”

“And that has stopped you exactly zero times before. Get up.”

Sherlock unfolds himself from the bed, his attempt at a nonchalant, Byronic smoulder ruined by the mad hair and the crooked kilt. 

“Very nice. I believe you know where to rent the additional accoutrements.” John pats Sherlock on the behind. “Now go in peace, my child, and see to your mould cultures.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” It’s John’s turn to shiver as Sherlock’s voice runs right through him.

“I heard that shift in your breath;” Sherlock grabs John by the arm, suddenly predatory, “the cultures can wait.”

“I don’t know if I’m available to someone who calls me old.”

“Oh, I think you are.” Sherlock runs his hand down John’s side, admiring the beautiful compactness of his body. John leans into him and lays his lips along Sherlock’s collarbone, then bites him sharply, leaving a brief circle of teeth marks on the skin. Sherlock’s hand curls around the bottom curve of John’s arse and pulls him closer. They’re face to face, now, chest to chest, and the only thing between them is the kilt.

Sherlock brings his other hand up to the back of John’s head and pulls him into a kiss that’s teasing and fluttery, a nip here, a lick there, a drawing back as John parts his lips. Then, in the millisecond before John’s forehead creases in a frown, Sherlock sets his mouth fully on John’s and kisses him properly, a warm melding of tongues and lips. His hands pull John in further, crushing their bodies together. 

John slides his hands up Sherlock’s thighs and savours the feeling of the kilt rucking up over his hands. He reaches around and grasps Sherlock’s arse under the fabric, then rocks against him suggestively. Sherlock sighs and pushes back.

Then John steps away. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I need some tea. We’re very tied to our habits, we elderly folk.”


End file.
